The Final Day: RAID Complete

We awoke on the final day of the Raid knowing that the hard work was in the bag, and the official results were decided. The riders spent most of the morning arguing about who had snatched the coveted yellow jersey, who was king of the mountains, and Dad was insisting he was a shoe-in for the 'young rider' accolade. The one thing that everyone agreed on was that the final stage, like in the Tour de France, would be a non competitive precession into our equivalent of the Champs-Elysees: St Cyprien beach.

Before the serious business of the final stage ride though, we had the equally serious business of breakfast to attend to. The Raid had reserved one of its grandest breakfast spreads for the final morning, including some new additions in the form of eggs and icing covered biscuits. The only other guests eating were a young Spanish family, who left their small child unattended for most of the breakfast. We contemplated kidnapping the helpless child, demanding an earlier check-in time for that night's hotel and some plastic Champagne flutes for our ceremonial ride, but then the parents came back.

As Mike was distracted with the accounts spreadsheet, Tom and Dad slipped out unnoticed to source our driver a fine bottle of red by way of thanks for his sterling efforts. We perused a whole wall of locally produced wines in a tiny dusty wine shop, with nothing to go by but the pretty labels. The friendly shop owner noted our gormless expressions and gave us some recommendations based on our budget, but we ignored them all as Dad had already spotted a map-based label, which tied in with Mike's duties on the trip. We knew Mike had no knowledge or standards when it comes to wine, so we bagged the dodgy plonk, put it in a fancy bag and he was none the wiser.

Glowing from the wine presentation, Mike got in the director's chair for one last time and choreographed the bike-based Raiders through some intricate synchronised helmet-puting-on shots. The final footage should prove to be highly dramatic and deadly serious in the final edit. Promise.

At the last minute before setting off we realised we hadn't secured the all important champagne needed for our victory stage. So lycra-clad, we returned to our friendly wine merchant to snap up his cheapest bottle of bubbly. The plan was to meet up with the driver a few kms into our route, break out the bubbly and film the riders basking in our collective glory. But first, he'd left it late, but Dad just about managed to get in his traditional section of motorway riding. Unluckily for the sadistic route planner, this was merely a big, busy road, not quite the full motorway that's become his trademark, but it was unpleasant nonetheless, and we put the collective hammer down to get through it as quickly as possible. We turned off the maelstrom of traffic onto a peaceful stretch of flat road winding through olive groves. With Mike there to share in the glory, Team Leader popped the cork and we attempted a lame version of a F1 finishing podium, spraying each other with Champagne, before the rock-n-roll moment wore off and we desperately tried to wipe the sticky blotches off our bike frames. It was a sweet moment as we slowly rode in formation, passing the bottle between us. Our unfamiliarity with close-formation, bike mounted drinking and the consequent threat of falling off made the moment slightly more tense than it should have been, but hopefully the footage will make us look like total badasses anyway.



As championed by Dr. Merxx (yawn) the Champagne's bubble in our bloodstream gave us the extra impetus needed to time trial the final section into strong headwind across flat, baked terrain until without warning we arrived at the mediterranean sea. We spent a while standing there stupidly looking from sea, to hazy mountains behind us, trying to get our heads around the fact we'd ridden here. Finally an impatient phone call from Mike snapped us out of it and we went to seek him out in the seaside town of St Cyprien. As was now routine, Mike had located a suitable bar and got himself dug in. This time literally, as a strong sidewind required all outside tablewear to be firmly batoned down. With these conditions in mind, we ordered the heaviest thing on the menu: steak hache with fried egg and frites. After a surprisingly tough day's ride (or was it just the hangover kicking in?) it was a really satisfying lunch.

Full of food and beer, we ground out a lackadaisical ride back to our holiday camp place, where Tom and Mike effected a quick turn around speeding straight off to Perpignan to run errands, leaving Dad and Greg to check in.

The two man search party had serious end-of-trip business to attend to: Filling the Doblo's petrol tank, buying a hard drive to back up the Raid's immense amount of film and photography data, and trying to negotiate an extra day of Doblo with Europecar. Mike also had the small matter of working out how he would get himself to Barcelona for his extended holiday. With the efficiency of a highly lubricated rear-derailleur (one for the bike fans) the lads managed to achieve all of this in less than two hours, despite about an hour and a half of negotiating Perpgnan's unfathomable road signage system. Our reward for this stressful mission would soon be ours, we thought. Within a few minutes we would be relaxing poolside in our luxury holiday spa, all loose ends tied up. Job done. The dream was instantly extinguished as we got back to a shell-shocked Dad and Greg, cowering in the shade of our individual 'villa'. Some hard facts became apparent: The resort was a holiday camp from a bygone generation where strict rules, stifling systems and a lot of standing around complaining with your neighbours were the staple elements manking everyone feel comfortable. Having to pay 9.50 for a towel left us using pillowcases to dry off and didn't make for a totally comfortable stay.

Fighting utility with utility, we made ourselves useful and packed all the bikes in the Doblo ready for a quick getaway the following day. If we folded our legs around the backs of our heads and wedged our bags in the remaining gaps, we could get bikes, luggage and humans into the same car – perfect. With all jobs done, we defaulted to the bar to do our usual beer accompanied footage review. As riveting as the footage was, after three SD cards and with stomachs complaining, we couldn't ignore the issue of dinner any longer. Surveying the deserted resort, we tentatively decided to check out the on-site restaurant. As soon as we saw the fluorescent lighting blaring out of the concrete building we know something wasn't quite right. It could have been an old people's home. Still contemplating trying our chances, we wandered past to scout the place out. The aproned dinner lady clearing empty plates from a table of pensioners with a trolly was the final straw and we ran for the Doblo to escape the camp.

Mike revved the Doblo's pulsating 1.2 litre engine and we burst through the closed gate, leaving flaming tyre tracks leading to the bright lights of Allenya - a tiny village down the road. 15 seconds later, we spotted a lively little brasserie on the corner of a charming old square. Bingo. We abandoned the car and sat down at a table for 4: The last supper was ON. We had unexpectedly struck gold with this last choice – the couple in charge of the joint were super friendly and despite our late and badass entrance, the cheery lady happily helped out us gormless foreigners by drawing little pictures of seafood in Mike's notebook, explaining the menu. Again, we ignored the advice of the experts and went for a platter of Iberain meats followed by a plate of assorted grilled meats. Mmmm..meaty. We accompanied the delicious fatty feast with demis of 1664 and a comprehensive review of the entire trip from start to finish:

Thinking back to unpacking the bikes at Biarritz seemed a lifetime away, and we recalled how that lifetime nearly ended prematurely with the MacDonalds fight. The shock of our first col, Marie Blanque. The different meals we'd enjoyed, from the stuffy and expensive a la carte experience in a Barcus hotel, to the simple and satisfying pasta in the cosy Col de Menthe cabin. We remembered the phantom nipple, and the floating island. The scenic beers, and the inevitable scenic wees. Being roasted alive in searing 36 degree heat, and frozen to the bone in sodden jerseys at the top of Tourmalet. The excitement at the latest GoPro shot as we reviewed our footage at the end of each day, and Mike's ever more adventurous directing. The riders remembered the Cols they had battled up, all 11 of them. Mike fondly recalled making each one even harder by demanding sprints 'for the footage'. There were great characters that we encountered along the way: Angry hostel man, Friendly Daniel, Sergeant Major Lisa, the lumberjack, the friendly chavs of Pierrefitte, Keith Richards Lady, and for the bikers on their journey back: Jason.

Once again, it's been incredible. Massive thanks to Mike for carting all our kit around, spending two weeks lost in the French countryside, and sitting at the top of some pretty desolate hills for quite a long time. We couldn't have done it without him. Now all we can do is watch this space for the book and the exciting prospect of multiple film edits before Christmas...watch this space!

RAID OUT.